Voldemort, My Boyfriend, and Other Famous People
by RedChequeredConverse
Summary: Just having Harry and I as ‘us’ is enough, for now. To tell the truth, I wasn’t sure -- maybe we really were done. The Battle changed him so much -- maybe he wasn’t ready to be with anyone, much less me. Harry/Ginny, Post-DH, Ginny's POV.


I love it when he kisses me. It reminds me how much I love him, how long I've been waiting for this. I've been waiting for seven damn years, and I'm not about to give up now.

It's not all butterflies and daisies. Everyone's been hit hard by the war; hell, Fred Idied./I My brother is Idead/I.

So, I'm letting us go slowly. Just having Harry and I as 'us' is enough, for now. To tell the truth, I wasn't sure -- maybe we really were done. The Battle changed him so much -- maybe he wasn't ready to be with anyone, much less me.

So I'm glad, unbelievably glad, that he still kisses me like this.

We're in his room, on his bed. His hand is under my shirt; if I had room in me for anything except the feel of his skin on mine, I'd pray to Merlin that Ron won't walk in on us.

"Ginny . . ." Harry whispers, his warm breath tickling my ear. I'm not sure what I'm thinking, but I --

"DINNER!" Mum bellows from the kitchen.

I smile wryly at Harry. "Timing is everything, right?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Right."

We lay there for a few moments; I'm savoring his warmth, his body next to mine.

"Let's go down," Harry says finally, reluctantly. "Your parents will get suspicious."

"Not to mention my brothers," I add, sitting up and swinging my legs off the bed. Just as my feet hit the cool wood, the bedroom door opens and George walks in.

"Speak of the Devil," I mutter to Harry, and he smiles.

In one glance, George takes in Harry, still lying on the bed, and (I realize too late) my skewed t-shirt. He nods grimly. "Dinner, if you didn't hear."

"We're coming," I say.

He nods again, but doesn't move; he obviously doesn't trust us alone.

Resigned, I get up and walk out of Harry's room. I can't resist one bit of immaturity, however; I stick out my tongue at George as I pass him.

There was a time when he would at least return the gesture, if not something equally rude. Now, he just looks at me.

That look freezes my insides. This isn't my brother. I'm scared of this empty shell he's become.

I'm standing in the doorway, immobile. It's not until Harry comes up behind me and places a hand at the small of my back that I remember to move.

"C'mon, Ginny," Harry says softly. I don't think he noticed George's odd behavior, until I actually look at him, when we're partway down the stairs. He noticed. He looks just as disturbed as I feel.

Dinner is as quiet as eleven people at one table can be. The whole family is at the Burrow, we have been since the War ended. There seems to be a barrier against any of us leaving just yet; I'm not sure if or when it will break. It must at some point, though. The poor house is bursting at its hinges.

After dessert -- delicious apple dumplings, grief hasn't affected Mum's cooking -- people slowly filter into the living room. We do pointless things: listening to the wireless when there's nothing good on, reading a book full of things you don't need to know, talking about things that don't matter. I'm suddenly filled with the strong, irrational desire to kick something.

I'm restless, I realize. Which is strange, because I never used to be. It must be everything Neville and Luna and I did last year; when you're painting forbidden things on a corridor wall, you can't waste any time.

That reminds me, I should write to Luna and Neville. Maybe invite them over. It would be nice to see some new faces, and I'm sure the Burrow is up to the task of holding just two more people.

I jog up the stairs to my room, to grab some parchment and a quill. I consider just staying up here, in the peace -- quiet I can find plenty of downstairs. Harry's down there, though, and so are Ron and Hermione. They could write, too, and save an owl the extra trips.

So I go right back down the stairs, and reenter the living room. Harry waves me over to a corner where he and Ron are playing chess, with Hermione looking on, tracking the moves with her eyes. I'll bet if someone asked her, she could tell you every move that had been played so far.

I sit next to Harry; the chair is wide enough that I don't have to sit Ion/I him, but not so wide that I avoid a disapproving glare from Ron.

I consider flipping him off, but I simply don't have the energy. I grab the book laying next to Hermione, and place my sheet of parchment on it. Carefully unscrewing my ink pot, I dip my quill and begin.

IDear Luna . . ./I

I'm sleeping on the couch again, because I've always been a light sleeper and Harry's having nightmares. I tried


End file.
